


I See the Moon, the Moon Sees Me

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: The Glass Slipper Series [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: I don't know man, I'm super tired, M/M, Mates, Sort Of, Stiles is Snow White, enjoy this thing i wrote while sleep deprived
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: Peter finds the body at the river's edge.And it is just that—a body. He can't quite make himself believe that it's Stiles, even with the young man cradled close against his chest. He's so cold. Peter lets himself go numb.[This is the story of Snow White...except not quite.]
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: The Glass Slipper Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1188077
Comments: 20
Kudos: 307





	I See the Moon, the Moon Sees Me

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, hey there! Hi there! Hello there!
> 
> Wow, don't you look amazing today!!! Oh my goodness, thank you for being here!!!
> 
> I'm honestly not sure about this one. I mean, I like it. I liked writing it. I just don't know how closely it fits Snow White, maybe? Originally, I thought it might follow Sleeping Beauty a little more closely, but I realized I have different plans for that story, sooo I think Snow White fits fine. 
> 
> Anyway!!! Enjoy!!!

Stiles sucks in another wet breath, choking on rain as he stumbles. His bare feet slide through mud and leaves as he weaves between dark, massive shapes. He thinks they're trees. He _hopes_ they're trees. He doesn't think he can handle another attack with the state he's in.

The silhouette of a house wavers in the distance, windows bright bursts of light. He should avoid it. He can't trust people—can't trust _himself_ with people. Maybe he can trek further into the preserve, find a quiet spot to rest until the pounding in his head ebbs. 

God, it hurts.

Stiles's foot catches, and his ankle twists. He barely has the strength to cry out as he falls. His hands fly out to shield himself from the ground, from the hurt and the ache. He's so tired. Of hurt. Of ache.

A tree stops his descent. He thinks it's a tree. He _hopes_ it's a tree.

A tree with warm arms that hold him tight, gentle fingers that cradle his fevered head, blue eyes that shimmer in the darkness and pull him closer to the surface of consciousness for just a moment. 

Please, just a moment.

“Stiles?” a deep voice rumbles, slithering its way into the young man's every nerve ending.

Stiles shivers and gasps, blinking slowly and watching the man's face blur. “Let me go.”

“I don't think that will end well for you.”

Stiles snorts and chokes on rain, closing his eyes and giving in to the urge to lean his head on the stranger's shoulder. “Nothing ends well for me.”

The blue-eyed man says something else, but Stiles is already drifting away, down into the depths of unconsciousness. He prays for quiet. For darkness.

For nothing, nothing.

0 o 0 o 0

Ash coats his tongue. Smoke fills his throat. He chokes and clutches at air—at nothing. There's nothing he can do. People are dying, and there's nothing he can _do_.

“Stiles?” someone calls, and he wants to cry. They sound like his mother. 

He couldn't save her either.

“Stiles, you're safe.”

_Safe._

No one's safe. Not with him around.

“Follow my voice. Find your way back.”

Stiles doesn't want to come back, but the voice is like a magnet. It tugs at something in his chest until he can barely breathe.

“Open your eyes.”

Stiles does, blinking as the light stings. There's a woman in front of him, sunlight ringing her dark hair in a halo and bright flecks floating around her head like cosmic dust. 

She looks angelic. 

She looks aflame. 

Stiles chokes on a sob. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking on the words. His shaking hands hover near her shoulders, too afraid to touch. “I'm so sorry.”

“Stiles, you have nothing to be sorry for,” the woman says. 

The young man closes his eyes, feels the tears cooling on his cheeks. “I couldn't save you. I couldn't...I should have known. I should have _seen_.”

There's a long pause before the woman speaks again. “Do you know where you are?”

Stiles nods without opening his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath. “The Hale house.” He shakes his head and digs the heels of his palms into his closed eyes. “Everyone's trapped. Everyone's _burning_. I can't stop it. I can't...help. Help!”

Soft hands cradle his head, and suddenly his breath comes easier, the pounding in his head recedes. “You're still very sick, honey. And you're in a lot of pain. Why don't you let Peter take you back to bed so you can rest?”

Stiles's breath hitches, and he opens his eyes, searching. “Peter?” 

Bright blue eyes swim into his vision. “Hello again, sweetheart.”

Stiles doesn't recall much more after that, other than Peter gently directing him and the constant heat pressed against his side. When he's laid down with a warm blanket pulled up to his chin, he sighs and lets his eyes close. Gentle fingers run through his hair. He mumbles a soft “Thank you” before darkness drags him under.

0 o 0 o 0

To Stiles's dismay, he wakes. 

Light cuts into his eyes as he opens them. He turns away and groans when pain erupts along his left side. 

“Sleeping Beauty awakes,” a soft, careful tone says, and suddenly Stiles is sitting up, pressed against the headboard as his heart hammers against his ribcage. “Careful, darling, you'll rip your stitches.” The man's voice is soothing, but his posture is stiff—hands out like he's trying to placate a frightened animal. 

Stiles's gaze reels. He breathes hard as he searches the room for exits, weapons...food.

God, he's hungry.

“Stiles,” the man says gently. Bright honey eyes find brilliant blue. “Do you know where you are?”

He does. And the thought relaxes him, but only a little. He's been on the run for weeks, alone and hurting. Stiles nods and swallows with a wince. His throat is like sandpaper.

“And do you know who I am?”

Stiles nods again, his arms shaking from the exertion of holding himself up. “Peter,” he says, and the name makes his heart flutter. “You...You found me.”

_Several Weeks Ago:_

_Scott tells Stiles that the Hales have approached him with an alliance proposal. More and more packs are disappearing. The Argents are getting bolder, not even attempting to hide the fact that they're the cause._

_“What kind of proposal?” Stiles asks curiously._

_The Hales are well-known. An alliance would be a welcome surprise, considering the McCall pack hasn't yet fully established itself. The only reason they're on the map at all is because Scott presented as a True Alpha. And those are pretty rare, apparently._

_Scott sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. Not a good sign. “It's an actual proposal,” he says sheepishly._

_Stiles stares back at him blankly._

_“For marriage,” Scott elaborates unnecessarily._

_“She wants you to marry someone in her pack?” Stiles asks, and his friend somehow manages to look more guilty._

_“Not me.”_

_Realization dawns, and the pit of Stiles's stomach drops. “Dude...”_

_“I didn't say 'yes' to anything,” Scott placates quickly. “It was just a suggestion. You don't have to agree to anything.”_

_“You're damn right I don't have to agree to anything,” Stiles says angrily, fingers twitching as implications of his refusal flit through his mind._

_Erica just got accepted to UCLA with a scholarship provided by the Hales. Boyd will be interning at the Hales' prestigious law firm in the fall. And Isaac...Well, Isaac is head-over-claws about Cora—and, unfortunately, their puppy love isn't the sort of bond that will create an alliance between the packs._

_Refusing would be social suicide. And possibly actual suicide. No pack will align themselves with someone who disrespects the Hales._

_“Who is the proposal for?”_

_Scott looks surprised but manages to stutter out “Peter Hale.”_

_The left hand of the Hale pack. The enforcer. The kind of man your mother warns you about._

_Peter. Fucking. Hale._

_Stiles has never met him personally, but Erica, on more than one occasion, has described him as Death on Two Legs._

_“Set up a meeting.”_

Two days later, the McCall pack was dead, and Stiles was on the run from the Argents. 

Angry tears flood the young man's eyes, spill down his cheeks. He slumps to the bed and shakes beneath the covers. 

“Stiles,” Peter says gently, the bed dipping as he sits, “it's okay. It's safe to let go.”

Stiles covers his mouth with both hands as a sob escapes his throat, clenching his eyes shut and curling into himself as best he can. He can't break down. He has to be strong. Scotty would want him to be strong.

“You've lost your pack. I can't imagine the pain you're in because of it.”

So much pain. The tethers that once connected him to his friends are broken and frayed. True, as a human he can't feel them as strongly as a wolf does. But he does still feel them. What _used_ to be them. He reaches out sometimes, tugs at the tethers like picking at a scab. And where there should be life, brilliant and warm, he finds a void. He finds darkness. He finds nothing, nothing.

The ache is indescribable. 

“Let go, Stiles,” Peter whispers, his fingers trailing through the young man's hair over and over. It's soothing. Stiles doesn't deserve it. “You're allowed to grieve. You're allowed to be angry. They were taken from you.” Peter lies down beside him, and Stiles doesn't hesitate to press himself to the older man, burying his face in Peter's shoulder. He shakes and writhes until he can't keep it buried any longer. His sobs burst out of him like a dam breaking, and there is little he can do to stop it. 

Peter doesn't shush him, just runs his fingers through Stiles's hair and lets him cry and cry and cry. Stiles feels raw by the end of it, trembling and sniffling and barely able to stay awake any longer. 

“Sleep, Stiles,” Peter murmurs, and the young man tenses. 

“Stay with me,” Stiles whispers. “Please. Don't leave me alone.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles wakes again.

Peter's side of the bed is empty but still warm, and a low, hushed conversation wafts in from the hallway. Before he can catch more than a couple words, the bedroom door opens, and Peter enters, a steaming mug in his hand. He smiles gently and sits beside Stiles on the bed. 

“Talia made you some tea. It should help with your fever and some of the pain.”

Stiles nods and pushes himself up until he's leaning against the headboard. He grasps the mug with a shaking hand, fingers gliding over Peter's as he takes it. The tea smells amazing. Sugary and flowery and soothing. 

“It's really good,” the young man says after a sip, and Peter settles beside him, their shoulders brushing. 

“Old family recipe.”

A comfortable quiet blooms between them, Stiles twisting the mug in his hands to chase away the cold in his fingertips. “You and Talia,” he says carefully, side-eyeing the older man, “you know me.”

Peter's quiet chuckle twists Stiles's stomach in knots. “A lot of packs know who you are by now.” The werewolf sobers some. “You've had a lot of people worried.”

The mug in Stiles's hands stops halfway to his lips. “Me?” His voice cracks on the simple word. “Why?”

Peter stares at him for a long moment. “Stiles, do you know how important you are?”

Stiles swallows and watches tea leaves swirl in his drink before shaking his head. “I'm not.”

“You are,” Peter counters quickly, as if expecting the answer. “Half the state has been looking for you. Talia called in a lot of favors.”

The sentiment is meant to make him realize his significance, Stiles is sure. But it only serves to prove the burden he's become. He closes his eyes against renewed tears. “If I'm so important,” he whispers, “why couldn't I protect my pack?”

“You aren't to blame for that.” There is a low rumble in Peter's chest, and his eyes glow a bright blue. 

Stiles doesn't even flinch. He knows what that particular color means. It's almost comforting, actually. Jackson's eyes are that color. 

... _were_ that color...

“The Argents will pay for the lives they've taken,” Peter promises, his fingers snaking through Stiles's hair. “ _All_ of them.”

Stiles breathes and breathes. They're pretty words. From an even prettier mouth, as far as he's concerned. But they do nothing to reach the hollowness inside him. 

He'll leave when he's better and settle things on his own. His pack deserves nothing less. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles's gaze wanders over the titles on the massive bookshelf that covers an entire wall of the room he's been staying in. He's wanted to look at them for days but couldn't quite muster the strength to get out of bed. Peter probably would have gladly listed every book in the collection twice over and brought him what sounded interesting—which, looking over the books now, would have been every single one.

But the Hales are already being far kinder than Stiles deserves. He doesn't want to trouble them with such trivial things. 

Peter finds him carefully skimming through an ancient tome on magical creatures. “How are you feeling?” he asks, and Stiles reluctantly tears his gaze away from the pages. 

“Much better,” he says a moment later when the question finally registers. “Thanks. For, you know, putting up with me.”

The older man smiles, hands sliding into his pockets. “It's not putting up with you if I enjoy having you here.”

Stiles huffs. “All I've done is lay in bed.”

“Stiles,” Peter says firmly, and the young man's throat goes tight. “Having you here, under our care, puts us at ease. You have no idea the panic and distress our pack has felt over the last few weeks.” He takes careful steps towards Stiles, taking his hands out of his pockets and placing them on the younger man's shoulders. “The mere sound of you breathing has allowed us to take a breath of our own.”

Stiles doesn't quite know what to say. “This isn't a guest room, is it?” he asks, and the question causes one corner of Peter's mouth to quirk. 

“No. It's mine.”

The young man nods. “You let me stay in your room,” he states, looking to the book in his hands, “put my scent on your things.” His breath shudders in his chest as he replaces the tome on the shelf, fingertips running up and down the worn spine. “Am I important to you, Peter?”

Peter lifts Stiles's chin, waits until the young man focuses on him. “You are the most important person in the world to me, darling.” He strokes the backs of his fingers across Stiles's cheekbone. “I have been in agony each moment since you were born, waiting to meet you. Stiles...” He looks over the young man's face like he's studying it, like he wants to memorize every inch of it. “Do you know how rare mates are?”

Stiles's heart stutters. “Are we mates, Peter?” he whispers, swallowing hard and reaching forward to tangle his fingers in the werewolf's shirt. “Is that what I've been feeling?”

Peter studies him curiously. “What have you been feeling?”

The young man takes a breath, drawing in Peter's scent. It's warm and musky. He smells like the forest, like summer nights under bright stars. “Safe,” Stiles says with relief. “I feel safe with you. _Drawn_ to you.” He looks at the other man with wide eyes. “I didn't know I felt that until I saw you.”

Peter smiles. “The Universe has the extraordinary ability to bring people together who should be.”

Stiles swallows. “And take them away.” He shakes his head before Peter can say anything. “I don't mean my pack. I mean yours. _You_.” A violent shudder climbs his spine, and he gasps as he feels the crackle of flames along his arms. “I can feel them burning.” There's a tremor in his voice. “Everyone. Trapped and scared.” His breaths come harder, his heart beats faster. 

Peter doesn't tighten his hold, doesn't move, doesn't do anything but murmur soothing nonsense words. Stiles concentrates on the tone, on the rumble in Peter's chest, on the warmth of Peter's hands. He breathes deep until his ribs ache and the embers in his lungs begin to quell, die out.

“Take your time, beautiful boy,” the older man says, and when Stiles closes his eyes and leans in, Peter wraps his arms around him. 

Stiles melds to the heat of his mate's body. “I'm going to save you, Peter,” he promises as the tremors and visions start anew. “I'm going to save all of you.”

Because someone deserves to live. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles furrows his eyebrows as he stares into the dark of the tunnel from the Hales' basement. The passageway leads outside a good distance from the house, should the family need to make a hasty escape. Something about the tunnel feels wrong, though. Stiles's chest tightens the more he stares into the blackness. 

He doesn't want to go in there—every fiber of his being is telling him _not to go in there_.

“Stiles?” Peter asks from behind him, and the young man releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. 

Talia's cool fingers slip into his own. “We don't have to do this now, Stiles.”

But they do. 

Because what if there is no _later_?

The young man pushes his shoulders back and takes a steadying breath. “I'm all right.” He looks into the Alpha's concerned eyes. “Lead the way.”

The tunnel isn't what Stiles is expecting. Once Talia flips a switch just inside, the passageway lights up brightly. The walls are plastered and painted, and the support beams chase away any notion of a cave-in. It's really more of a very long hallway. 

But something still stirs in the pit of Stiles's stomach as they make their way through. “Could do with some wallpaper,” he mutters nervously, and both the 'wolves chuckle.

“I've been telling her that for years,” Peter mock-whispers from behind. 

“I don't want it to look like that hotel from _The Shining_ ,” Talia protests, fingers squeezing Stiles's shoulder as she winks.

Stiles attempts a laugh but something acrid claws its way down his throat. His eyes begin to water, and he blinks furiously to clear them. 

“Stiles?” Peter asks when the young man stumbles.

“Smoke,” he manages before a coughing fit overtakes him. Peter takes his face in hands that feel like flames. 

“You should go back to the house with Talia,” he suggests. “I'll keep going.”

Stiles shakes his head, breathing hard as the fit passes. He lays his hands over Peter's and squeezes them despite the pain it elicits. “We need to stay together.”

The Hale siblings exchange a look, but neither of them protest, continuing down the passageway once the young man regains his bearings. Stiles stares at the walls as they pass, giving in to the urge to reach out and run trembling fingers along the drywall. He tries his best not to react to the horrific images that dance behind his eyes.

Soon enough, they come upon the tunnel's exit. Or what is supposed to be the exit. Instead of an escape to freedom, their passageway has become a cage. Heavy bars block their path.

“How the hell did these get here without us noticing?” Talia growls, her tone filled with anger and concern.

Peter reaches forward, but Stiles snatches at his wrist, ignoring the burn against his palm. The young man reaches his other hand out, fingers hovering near the metal but not touching it. 

“They're infused with wolfsbane,” he explains quietly. 

Peter tenses and inhales sharply. “I can't even smell it.”

Stiles draws his hand away and takes a step back. “You won't reach them anyway.” With dazed eyes, he looks down at his shoes. “They're going to flood the exit with kerosene.” He scrunches his nose. It smells so bad.

“Stiles,” Talia says, quiet but firm, “when is this going to happen?”

Stiles's breath hitches, and he watches through the bars as day turns to night, night turns to day. It happens twice more. “Three days. Before the the full moon.”

Peter asks something else, but Stiles's vision tunnels, and all he can see are charred bodies piled in front of the bars, hands reaching desperately for a nonexistent escape—for hope that will never come.

And a woman standing just beyond the bars that stares back at him.

“Stiles?” Peter asks carefully, and the young man gasps. 

“Who's that?” he whispers, gaze fixated. She's beautiful. But Stiles has the distinct feeling that she isn't someone he wants to know. 

She's dangerous.

“What do you see?” the older man asks, scanning the area himself. Stiles knows it's his way of saying there isn't anyone there. Whoever the woman is, the young emissary is the only one who can see her. 

“A woman,” he says slowly, taking his time to study her. “Blonde. And thin. Well-built. Her eyes...” Stiles shivers and takes a step away from the bars. “I don't like her eyes.”

Peter growls low in his throat and shields him from the invisible sight. “Kate Argent.”

Stiles tenses, squeezing the hand in his. He knows very little about Gerard's daughter. Only that she is vicious. Merciless. 

“She's going to kill you,” he says absently, turning wide, unseeing eyes onto the older man. “She wants to watch you burn.”

Peter says something, but his voice fades away, replaced by a lilting tone that wafts through the bars and sends a shiver up his spine. He looks outside again. Kate Argent is still standing there. She's saying something, and Stiles's eyelids are growing heavy. 

“Stiles!” Peter cuts through his thoughts with a violent jolt of the young man's shoulders. Stiles breathes heavily and shakes his head to clear it. Kate Argent is gone. 

“Stiles, are you all right?” Talia asks gently, and the young man swallows thickly. 

“I'm fine.” It's a lie. The 'wolves can tell. 

“You stopped breathing,” Peter says, and Stiles can feel worry radiating off the man. He presses his palm to Peter's cheek. 

“I'm okay, Peter. I promise.” He glances over the man's shoulder with one last look of concern. “Take me back upstairs. Please?”

Peter presses his forehead to Stiles's. “Of course, love. How about something to eat?”

Stiles doesn't think he'll be able to stomach anything. But he forces a smile and a nod anyway.

When he's settled at the dining room table with a sandwich, listening to the low tones of Peter and Talia speaking in the kitchen, he thinks he hears something from outside.

A woman's voice. 

Calling. 

Calling. 

Calling...

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles startles awake, shaking and sweaty from nightmares. Peter's arm around him is warm, and it takes little effort to move it aside and slip out of the bed without waking him. It should raise alarm. Peter stirs whenever Stiles's breathing hitches. 

Something isn't right. But the siren song in Stiles's head is persistent. His bare feet move him noiselessly across the floor, down the stairs, and out into the garden. He walks for what feels like hours, nothing but the moon to guide his way, until he hears the sound of rushing water. The river on the preserve is almost a mile from the Hale house. 

His feet ache, and the cold sends a violent tremor up his spine. 

There's a woman on the other side of the river—Kate Argent. Her hair whips around her shoulders with the wind, one hand coming up and beckoning him towards her. She doesn't speak, but Stiles knows what she wants from him. Knows what he has to do. 

The water chills his toes as he takes his first few steps from the riverbank.

0 o 0 o 0

Peter finds the body at the river's edge.

And it is just that—a body. He can't quite make himself believe that it's Stiles, even with the young man cradled close against his chest. He's so cold. Peter lets himself go numb.

0 o 0 o 0

Peter won't let him be buried.

Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

His family begs him for closure. For peace. 

Let him go. 

He's gone. 

Stiles is dead. 

But he can't make himself believe it. Goddess, he wishes he could. His body aches with the need to release the hold this boy has on him, even in death.

Stiles is dead. 

He's gone. 

Let him go. 

Peter curls in on himself at night and cries into exhausted nightmares. 

Stiles begging for help. 

Stiles screaming in agony. 

Stiles clawing his fingers bloody as he desperately tries to escape his own grave. 

Peter always wakes with the young man's name at the back of his throat and panic in his limbs. He races from his bed, out to the woods, to the place Stiles lies. 

Encased in a glass coffin—because Peter can't bear to keep him from view—nothing touches him. Nothing dares. Not even sunlight shines on the young man, too saddened by his loss to acknowledge his death. 

And Peter stares. He stares and he prays to the moon, begs for Her rays to fill Stiles with life again. 

But the moon doesn't answer. 

And Stiles grows paler. 

This night, Peter falls to his knees. Sobs. Begs. _Pleads_. He offers everything for Stiles's life—even his own. 

Especially his own. 

_Silly wolf-child_ , the moon says, and Her voice is beautiful and powerful and ancient. _What would your love say if he returned from his sleep to find you gone?_

Peter breathes, and the noise fills the forest. “Sleep?” he asks, looking over the young man in wonder. No heart beat. No breath. How can he be anything other than dead?

_Wait, little one. Watch._

Peter holds his breath, just as he had that day in the woods when he'd found Stiles face-down in the river. He chokes at the thought but swallows around the tightness in his throat and waits. 

And watches. 

And after several moments of nothing, nothing, _nothing_ , finally there is...

Something. 

A beat of Stiles's heart. 

Quiet and weak, but still there. 

Still there. 

Peter can't be imagining it. He pushes open the glass case, bracing himself for the scent of death and decay. It isn't there. 

There is still something stale and acrid hanging around the young man, something Peter suddenly recognizes, and his hackles rise immediately.

Black magic. 

It stains Stiles's skin with vulnerability, and the werewolf has the urge to protect. He growls, and the moon coos at him like he's a pup pretending to be ferocious. 

“Who?” he demands through fangs. 

_You know who_ , She says, Her tone flat and final. 

Peter knows he won't get anything more from Her. But he doesn't need anything else. 

Just a plan. 

And his pack. 

0 o 0 o 0

The Argents are dead.

All of them. 

Peter is sure there were innocents among them. But he doesn't care. They're gone. 

Finally gone.

He hadn't expected his family to support him so fully. Not for a silly boy they barely know. And he certainly hadn't been expecting support so quickly. Talia has always been level-headed, a planner. 

But the Argents' newest betrayal had forced her hand, and she'd called for action immediately. 

Covered in blood and dirt, Peter runs back to the preserve. Back to Stiles. 

His heart beat is still barely there. 

His skin is still too cold. 

How? Why?

Peter killed Kate. Sliced her throat wide open and watched the life drain from her eyes. The fool hunter admitted to enchanting his young mate—gloated about it, for Goddess' sake—so why isn't Stiles awake?

“Help me,” he begs, shaking from exhaustion and anger and hopelessness. “Please.”

 _You love him_ , the moon sighs, and Peter lets his eyes fall shut. 

“Yes.” He's never tried to hide it, not since he realized what the ache in his chest means. “Yes, more than life.”

 _Then wake him_ , She says simply.

And somehow Peter knows it _is_ that simple. 

He hovers over Stiles, eyes studying the young man's face as he silently begs his permission before surging forward and capturing his lips in a kiss that seems to last lifetimes. And still not long enough. 

Something erupts between them. _From_ them. A gust of wind so powerful it steals the breath from Peter's lungs as Stiles drags in a glorious breath of his own. His eyelids flutter, then snap open with a determined immediacy. Peter loses himself in the intensity of those honey eyes. 

“Stiles,” he whispers, unable to keep tears at bay.

The young man lifts a hand to wipe them from Peter's face. 

“Peter.” The name is music on his tongue, and his lips tremble as he smiles. “Did you find me?”

Peter chokes on laughter and agony. “I did,” he says, and his voice breaks on the words. “I found you, beautiful boy.”

Stiles stares at him in wonder. “I knew you would.” He pulls Peter to him, kissing him sweet and slow. 

“Always,” Peter promises.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking Sleeping Beauty will be my next grand adventure...If you have any suggestions or want to see these silly boys in another fairytale type trope, let me know!! I do love your input!!
> 
> Have an amazing day, my friend!! You deserve it!!


End file.
